


wait

by ikijai



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 08:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikijai/pseuds/ikijai
Summary: The phone rings in December. She picks it up in January.





	wait

The phone rings in December. She picks it up in January.

Karen walks to work and takes a taxi back to discover one missed call she’s too tired to pick up. It’s probably Trish, she thinks, wanting notes on how to _write journalistically—_ one of many disguises for the true inquiry. The next time the phone rings, she knows it isn’t. There would’ve been a message, a voice on the other side saying _please pick up_. _I called yesterday, too._

She holds the phone between trembling fingers and tells herself it’s impossible.

“You wanna open the door?”

 _Impossible_ , she thinks still. But ghosts don’t use phones to dial barely used numbers. He’s outside, waiting. He's outside using a phone instead of knocking.

“You look terrible,” she says when the door opens.

“Thanks, Karen,” he utters, pupils warm in a way that tells her he’s pleased though he isn’t smiling. “It’s good to see you too, y’know.”

And as much as she wants to be able to part ways, it is. He’s untainted under the dim light. The way he holds himself proves he’s tired. _Thick skinned idiot_ , she thinks. But her pulse is pounding because he is breathing in one piece and standing in her doorway on a Tuesday.

There's a purple-blue bruise on his jaw that twitches when Karen’s stare is drawn to it. She inspects any other possible injuries with keen eyes, is pleased to discover that he's mostly untouched. It's odd to see him without dried blood wedged in unfortunate places.

Per usual, he's dressed in black from top to bottom, booted, jittery toes kicking at the wall near the door until he decides to step the whole way inside. The door is left open, but he doesn't look back, she observes. Not once.

It’s been weeks since she tried to pry answers from Dinah Madani’s tight fingers, weeks since the woman wouldn’t budge an inch. She’d been pissed then, but she’s glad for it now. Frank’s got a team that won’t stab him in the back while he isn’t watching.

She should know better at this point, anyway. Frank isn't the type of person who knows how to stay dead.

While he thinks she’s distracted, he tiptoes toward the kitchenette, putting his back up against the wall there without touching her on his way past. He’s infuriating.

“I took out your trash,” he utters.

 _Where’d you go?_ she wants to yell. _Why didn’t you pick up the goddamn phone 48 days ago?_

_  
I thought you were dead. I thought they killed you._

But she nods instead, an upward twist to her lips that isn’t a smile. Her defenses are down and she might as well be invisible. “Thanks.”

He pulls his lip between his teeth so tightly the skin turns white. Then: “How's work?”

“You wanna know about my job?” As incredulous as it is, she plays along when he tilts his head in a partial nod. “It's been—” _dead_ , she thinks, but stops in her tracks when Frank’s jaw twitches. “Dry. Not too much going on, which is probably a good thing.”

“It is.” His head dips to look her directly in the eyes for the first time today. She wishes he didn't.

“How was your day?” she tries, desperate to sound like any type of normal. _How was your year?_  she should say. It’d be more true to the fact that they disappear from each other more often than not.

“ _Karen_.”

“I know,” she whispers, wiping at imaginary tears. Despite everything, the way he utters her name still pulls too tight. “I know.”

Inching his way toward her, he tugs his hood tighter over his head, dark tresses peaking through when he does. Physically, he’s Pete Castiglione. Physically, he isn’t dead. But PTSD doesn’t discriminate and Pete is in just as much pain as Frank was.

From a distance, it's terrifying. Up close, it's devastating.

“What’re you doing here, Frank?” she utters.

“Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You didn't, uh,” she clears her throat, forces the words out. “You didn't call, so I thought, you know.”

Frank doesn't say a thing, dark eyes turning to transparent ice. His insides are so different from his outsides that she wants dig in deep and tear them out until he’s something like okay. Something like _untraumatized_.

“You want a drink or something?”

“‘m good,” he utters. For the the first time in a long time, Frank looks insecure. He’s peering somewhere toward the open space between her back and the windowsill with the dying flowers in it. She doesn’t water them, doesn’t try to make things okay. She despises it.

“Those are dead,” he pronounces.

“I know.” _You were too. Prick._

“I heard about Billy Russo.” She jumps to the topic, swiftly, before he tries to interrupt. “Is he—”

“ _Dead_ ,” Frank utters, tone nearly sadistic in the way it twists her insides into knots. “Or will be.”

He’s a trailblazer, Karen thinks. Doesn’t know when to back down.

The buzzing in his jacket pocket distracts them. Karen watches as he doesn’t pull it out with urgency, doesn't grind his teeth at the words. Instead, he takes his time.

He puts it back with a deep sigh and an uttered _jesus christ._

“Who’s that?” Karen pushes.

“Just David,” Frank utters.

“Lieberman?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t know you were still keeping in touch.” She pretends it isn’t jealousy seeping through her tone like wet ink. It’s been weeks since she’s seen him— _48 days including today_ in which she thought he was dead _._  She wishes she knew how not to keep track.

“Yeah, well,” he utters, shrugs it off like it's nothing. But Karen knows through and through that the partner she’d helped him find is important to him.

“Yeah, well,” she parrots, thinks the noise trapped in his throat is a laugh in the un-obvious type of way.

Deep down, she knows she’s grateful for it. He isn’t diving into uncharted territory by himself anymore.

“What’s the Nelson guy’s name—” Frank begins, as if the tension inside Karen is palpable. “He’s still around, yeah?” _You’ve still got friends that aren’t dead, yeah?_

“Yup,” she utters. _Alive and kicking_ , she tries to joke. But the words get caught in her throat until it's difficult to breathe.

Thinking of Foggy makes her head pound. It makes her think of other people and things she couldn't put back together. There's a discomfort that pushes at her fingertips. It isn't because of him, though. It _isn't_. She’d watched the ball drop with him less than 12 hours ago, for fuck’s sake. But it's still difficult.

Frank only watches, inches away but on another planet. “Wanted to protect you,” he utters. “It’s why I didn't call before. I couldn't—”

“You couldn't?” Karen says. “Or _wouldn't_?”

She wants to take it back as soon as the deep sigh leaves parted lips. They dance around each other like they're scared of what will happen if they touch.

“You don't have to do this with me, Frank. You can tell the truth.”

He doesn't speak for a while, and the invisible distance between them is so painful she turns the other way. Minutes pass before either of them utter a thing. She isn't upset, though. This is how damaged people operate.

“I wrote a piece on Homeland,” she tests, takes a deep breath and turns around to look directly at him.

“I know.”

Instinctively, she isn't thrown. In every other way, she is. “You read my work?”

“Occasionally. You're a good writer, gotta pass time,” he shrugs, and _damn_ , it pisses her off how good he is at pretending.

Time has made him warmer—patient. It's made him smile with his eyes and loosen his posture. He stands like an oxymoron of a being who’s both lost and won.

_Professional doppelgänger._

His words are still tough, uttered in that deep timbre. But this isn't the person who’d taken out men in the woods. The person who’d pulled the trigger so many times he didn't know where the grip ended and his pointer finger began.

He watches her watch him back with an intensity unique to him only.

“You still packing?” he teases— _teases_ after all this time.

“Yup,” Karen says, pats the bag on the table-top that's somehow always within reach.

These days, the .380 at the bottom weighs a thousand pounds. Karen’s worlds away from when she'd pulled the trigger on Wesley. _Killed_ him, she thinks. But Frank doesn't know about that yet. Nobody does. If things were different, he’d be proud. If things were different, he’d smile with his teeth.

“You ditching town?”

“Nah. I'll be around for a while. I'm working things out, Karen. I'm _trying_.”

His eyes aren't wet, but his tone is. It's tight and unprotected and it makes Karen want to tell war to kill itself instead.

But the words feel like a promise. An odd one, too. She isn't used to his presence unfollowed by police sirens.

With this, the tears drop. It's as underwhelming as she’d thought it'd be. It just comes with the territory.

“You don't gotta worry 'bout me, Karen,” he utters, thumb brushing her bottom lip decisively.

 _Touché_ , she thinks. But they'd be wrong.

For a moment, she sees him yelling in front of too many people on live television. _Judge, jury, executioner_. She sees herself defending him and knows she wasn't wrong. She sees him saying he doesn't need people and wants to yell out at the irony.

“Nobody’s indestructible, Frank,” she utters.

Karen’s finger tugs his jacket sleeve until he purposely leans in to wrap taught arms around her shoulders, temple against temple. He smells like anything but decay. _Improvement, healing, understanding._ But most definitely not decay.

She smiles for the first time in a while. He’d jumped the last time she touched him this way.

In this setting, he nearly looks domesticated, and she wants to thank whoever or whatever made that possible. He traces invisible patterns down her back until an involuntary shiver travels up her spine. There's no ulterior motive to the way they hold on like tomorrow might not be a thing for people like them.

“I thought you were dead.”

  
She feels his arms tighten as soon as she says what she'd been thinking since he walked in. It’s tenderness in disguise. It's dark and the sun isn't out and she's icy inside until she isn't when he peers at her through those tragic eyes of his. Those eyes that could bring her to her knees and make her whisper _sorry_ even though she isn't the one who didn't pick up the phone for weeks.

"I didn't know where you were— _jesus_."

“I could _not_ put you in danger, Karen. You know how important this is?” he says, pointing between the two of them. “I couldn't show up here then and I wouldn't now ‘cept I _know_ what's out there.”

This man has been to death and back, but it's obvious that he isn't meant to drown in anything other than _warmth_. Anything other than the word she tells herself she doesn't know how to use yet.

None of that matters, though—not today. They're okay.

“Thanks,” she whispers instead. It's January 1st and it's about damn time.

“Yeah," Frank utters, pulling her in tighter instead of pulling back. “ _Yeah_.”


End file.
